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    Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale)
    Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale)
    Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale)
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale)

    By B. P. Crouse

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    About this ebook

    26900 words. The Snip and Clip killer is running amok in Riverside and a criminal mastermind has his assassin tying up loose ends. The question though is who will win this game in the end.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherB. P. Crouse
    Release dateDec 27, 2014
    ISBN9781310101878
    Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale)
    Author

    B. P. Crouse

    Fabler and PerspectivistA fabler is a spinner of tales, some true and some fiction, all in pursuit of deeper meaning. Fiction and stories provide a view we may ignore in our every day, go about the business of getting from paycheck to paycheck kind of lives.A perspectivist looks at things from different points of view. By looking at the different world-views we can grow and change. When we see things in a new way, we respond in a new way.Really though I just like stories. Any story that creates an escape from the mundane is good for me. I crave the distraction. I try to stay distracted and daydream as much as possible.

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      Book preview

      Gambits Afoot (Riverside Tale) - B. P. Crouse

      Gambits Afoot

      B.P. Crouse

      © 2013

      Smashwords Edition

      Gambits Afoot by B. P. Crouse is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/.

      Contents

      Awake

      Hide

      Hunt

      Withdraw

      Divert

      Remember

      Seek

      Deceive

      Reveal

      Introduce

      Rally

      Parry

      Resolve

      AWAKE

      A SCREAM WRENCHES me from my peaceful dreams ~ peaceful may not be the best description of the horrific nightmares plaguing my nights but who am I to say for sure. The scream originated deep from within the lungs of my neighbor ~ air forced passed taut vocal cords ~ through the frigid water exiting the shower head ~ ripping across the termite infested space between the walls of his apartment and mine ~ into my ear canal to vibrate the drum and minuscule bones.

      Glancing at the travel sized alarm clock hanging above my head ~ from a fly feces covered string pinned to the ceiling with a blue thumbtack ~ I see I have more than four hours before I have to go to work. Throwing the thin and fraying sheet off I sit up with greater haste than the flow of blood to my brain so I cradle my head in my hands for a moment waiting for the pain to subside and balance to again become of use. With trepidation I attempt to stand and succeed on the first try.

      Hurray.

      This may not seem to be something to laud over but minor accomplishments are still accomplishments nonetheless. Also, I’m a self-help junkie and affirmations are a big thing for us. I am a good person ~ I do good deeds ~ I'm a moron. I know the last one doesn't count but the morning breath and affirmation bullshit are enough to make anyone vomit ~ anyone who has eaten in the last two days anyway. Instead, bile joins the array of flavors in my mouth as I shuffle to the bathroom.

      Squeezing the tube from the middle I cover the bristles and begin working up a white, mint smelling foam. I gaze at my reflection ~ froth now spilling out the corners of my mouth ~ extract the toothbrush and clench my teeth while pulling my lips up. I also let out a small yet forceful growl imagining myself as a rabid dog. Then I drop my head to spit the remaining foam and toothpaste from my mouth. I rinse and drop the brush into the grimy cup on the sink and splash the water around to clean up before sauntering to my living room.

      I melt into my blue overstuffed couch. The ottoman I rest my feet on is covered by a quilt my grandmother made ~ finishing it just before entering the hospital for what would turn out to be her last open heart surgery. Okay, it wasn't really made by my grandmother ~ though it is possible someones grandmother made it ~ just not mine. My grandmother did have heart disease though. The purpose of the quilt is to cover the rather large burned area on the ottoman. An ex-roommate decided one night in a drunk fit of genius that it would be good to make a pattern with lighter fluid on that particular piece of furniture and then light it on fire. Though doubtful, if I had been there I may have been able to divert his attention to other areas of interest involving less destruction ~ at least to my property. Luckily there was beer near at hand to extinguish the blaze.

      I often laugh when thinking about his expression as he pondered how to put out the fire without wasting his booze. My neighbor reminds me in many ways of my ex-roommate ~ they even look similar, at least through the peephole in my flimsy front door. The last tenant drilled a hole in the door at eye level ~ if I was five-two. I really should find out my neighbor's name.

      I have lived in this insect infested firetrap for the last three years ~ such a short time can stretch to eternity. Apartments of this caliber are the gallbladder of living arrangements ~ best to excise them before they cause too much trouble. A flood once started the job ~ the foundation could now be chipped away with a pocketknife.

      I can hear my neighbor walking toward his kitchen ~ curiosity enthralling me I walk to my door. I have to find out why he has to get up so early in the morning ~ and his name, I need to find out his name. It still seems miraculous he could function at all in the morning considering his stupor a few hours prior. Stumbling drunk at three thirty-seven ~ awake and apparently sober by seven thirty-three when he once again walks past my door. I hear him close his door ~ he doesn't bother to lock it. No one in the building does unless they are in possession of something illegal. A light kick though would be enough to break in any door in the building so it’s a pointless endeavor to try to secure any of them. I smile as I look at the limp chain hanging next to my door. The best security is to own nothing worth stealing. I had a TV once but it was stolen ~ same with a clock radio. After that, anything I wanted to own I gave up on. I could have it all when I was out of this place.

      I pull open my door. The creaking noise startles my neighbor and he turns to glare at me. He must have cut himself shaving ~ the bits of toilet paper with blood centers stick to his neck and face ~ perverse donuts spotting his face like an acne-ridden teenager.

      Hello neighbor.

      Hello, he mumbles in a voice coarse from too much first and second hand smoke.

      What's your name? I question ~ a smile appears on my face ~ a twisted reflection of the confusion and frustration growing on his.

      Jacob.

      What do you do Jacob? Where do you have to be so early in the morning? His grimace tells me I’m prying into areas he would rather not discuss.

      Work. He shuffles past me ignoring the further queries I make to his receding back.

      After hearing the door to the apartment building slam shut I turn back to my home sweet home.

      ♚

      I think I should have left before it got worse ~ in my defense though who could have thought it would get worse. The thing about that is, sometimes the situation gains the upper hand and one begins to gain the stench of stagnation. At first this smell permeates everything in life ~ the smelling salt which most people are offended enough by to be reawakened into bettering their station in life. For some though ~ I have come to be part of this lot ~ there is a desensitization that occurs. Then the stench begins to hang about the shoulders ~ like my father's cheap suit did when I was six ~ and it becomes comforting. It is familiar. It is the normal part of my spectacularly dismal existence.

      ♚

      My eyes are assaulted by alternating red and blue strobes as I walked around the corner on my way home from work. Pigmobiles in front of my apartment building ~ I am saddened to say ~ are common.

      Drug deals and prostitution are career fields the children of the neighborhood aspire to. My second shift minimum wage job at Fantastic Copymakers may not have such high net profit for employees but my personal safety is worth more than money ~ at least on most days. My pace slows as I close the distance between the corner and the yellow tape barricade erected by the flaccid Riverside PD. Pushing through the throng of people ~ sheep held at bay by a piece of string ~ I catch a glimpse of coroners wheeling a gurney from the building. They struggle with the weight of the load ~ it shifts and the sheet fails in its attempt to conceal the body. In the

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